Felix scratched his unruly beard. “Aurelius’ death? The method would suggest it. It’s been my experience that the ambitious resort to the blade only after lawyers and poisons have failed.”
“Poison also suggests premeditation. But what of the girl Adula?”
“A obvious diversion, most probably inspired by the fiery deaths of those stylites.”
“There’s also the senator’s diplomatic mission to be considered. There may well be some in this city who would prefer not to see any negotiations at all carried out. But it could also have been a purely personal affair,” John suggested.
“You’re thinking of Gaius, aren’t you? I heard him arguing with Aurelius myself. But we both know Gaius is a drunkard, not a murderer.”
John nodded agreement. “However, I fear he can be a violent drunkard. I have noticed his servants bruised on more than one occasion and I suspect he beats them when he is in the arms of Bacchus.”
“Not praiseworthy, perhaps, but violence toward a slave can’t be compared with violence toward a senator. The former is an owner’s prerogative, after all.”
John admitted that that unfortunately was true.
“You might as well suspect that old man you’ve been harboring,” the excubitor captain continued. “He was grumbling bitterly about Aurelius to anyone who would listen. A foolish man for a philosopher, if you ask me. Athens must have been a safe place indeed for his tongue to have survived to such an age.”
“I’ll caution Philo again about that when I get home. He certainly poses a danger, but only to himself.”
Felix nodded and called out an order to one of his men.
“I’ll keep guards at the outer doors while we search the house, John, but the rest of my men can go back to the barracks now that we’re almost done here.” He paused. “Thank Mithra that Anatolius’ mother did not live to see this.”
“As you say, Felix,” John replied. “But before I leave, I must attempt to speak with Anatolius again.”
The youthful servant Anatolius had left to guard the study door replied to John’s query as he had to all those made earlier. The master was in mourning and wished to be alone with his thoughts.
As the youth recited the rote message his gaze darted back and forth as if he were looking for a place to hide. Clearly he was terrified of offending the Lord Chamberlain. However, he remained at his station by the door.
“I must respect his wishes, of course,” John told him. “What is your name?”
The servant looked even more terrified. “It’s Simon,” he stammered.
“Well, Simon, when I do finally speak to your master I shall tell him that you carried out a difficult task very diligently. He will be pleased, and since he is now head of the household, this tragic night may well serve to start you on the way to a bright future.”
To John’s surprise Simon’s face clouded with disappointment before he replied, his voice breaking. “Pardon, your highness sir, but I had hoped the old master would free me in his will.”
“Yes, of course. He may just have done so,” John told him, then added gently, “But there are thousands of freed men in this city who labor at far worse jobs than serving a man like Anatolius.”
Before the servant could reply, a strident voice echoed from the entrance hall, demanding that Senator Aurelius come out of hiding without delay.
John arrived at the hall to find Felix arguing with a man whose patrician features were familiar to everyone at the palace. And not only his features. Senator Balbinus’ orations were renowned for being as noisy as the slapping of thongs against the oracular brass plate at Dodona.
“As I have been trying to tell you,” Felix was saying, “the senator will not be seeing anyone again. He is dead.”
Senator Balbinus abruptly ceased fulminating and his face settled into a frown. John noted the dark smudges under the eyes and the half-healed wound, a long scratch, running along one cheekbone.
“It’s true that we had our differences of opinion,” Balbinus said, “but still, I am very sorry to hear this most shocking news. A great loss to the senate and to the empire. But if I may inquire…”
“There will be an official announcement in due course,” said John. “And now tell me, senator, what business did you intend to conduct here at such an early hour?”
“It was of a personal nature.” Balbinus’ hand moved to the nascent scar on his cheekbone. Catching the glance exchanged between the other two men, he blustered on red-faced. “The streets become more unsafe every day. A couple of Blues set upon me within sight of the Chalke. The factions grow bolder by the hour. Where are those engaged to protect good citizens like me?”
“I’m sure those ruffians took to their heels when you unleashed your oratory at them,” snapped Felix, taking the senator’s question as a personal insult.
Balbinus ignored his remark. “Please extend my sincere condolences to his son. He is a most astute young man, for a poet.”
After Balbinus departed, Felix made as if to spit his disgust but looked at the artfully patterned tile floor and refrained. “There’s one who’ll obviously be happy to deal with the son rather than the father,” he said tartly.
“There are plenty of others like him,” observed John. “They might be surprised when the time comes.”
“I hope so,” sighed Felix. “But I wouldn’t bet on it. If I were still a betting man, that is.”
Chapter Eleven
It took longer than John might have guessed to examine Aurelius’ house in the brighter but no more revealing light of day. With the task completed, he went directly to the palace, where he was kept waiting for hours before being informed that the emperor was not available. Exhausted, John returned home. The short nap he intended to take turned into a death-like sleep that lasted until the next morning.
Despite his chagrin at such weakness, it did not matter because that day Justinian was still receiving no one. The emperor’s instructions were that all communications were to be conveyed to him through Theodora, who was also authorized to act in his stead on matters of urgency with his full knowledge and approval.
The elderly silentiary who recited this information gave John a toothless smirk. Both men knew very well that when Justinian was engrossed in theology he wouldn’t notice Satan squatting atop the dome of the Great Church. Although whether Theodora was likely to issue orders that would gain the emperor’s attention too late, was, John thought, an open question.
“I imagine that a number of officials have decided it is an excellent time to visit their country estates,” remarked John evenly after he received the news.
The silentiary chuckled. “Isn’t that always the case when the political weather changes? But as far as that goes, I’ve heard it said that heavenly fire is but a candle flame compared to the wrath of the empress.”
With a brooding sense of foreboding John made his way across the palace grounds, past deserted pavilions, the richly decorated houses of court dignitaries, and half bare flower beds waiting for summer to bring back their colorful displays of blooms. His destination was the Hormisdas Palace where, as the silentiary had informed him, Theodora was holding audience that morning.
The smoky corridors in the Hormisdas were as crowded and noisy as the city streets, and just as malodorous. Theodora had lived here with Justinian before he became emperor, but now the rambling building housed the empress’ collection of heretics.
No one could say whether the religious refugees sheltered there owed their temporary good fortune to the empress’ sympathy for the downtrodden, her tolerance for various beliefs, her political machinations or to simple perversity. What was certain was that Justinian was, as always, ready to indulge his wife’s whims. Thus, between the high ceilings and floral mosaic floors of rooms ringing with a babble of prayer, chanting, and disputation, fleshy bishops rubbed shoulders with their emaciated and hobbling lesser brethren.
John walked swiftly down a corridor on whose bright walls unfolded the progress of a tiger hunt. The striped fur of the stately beast blended with the lush foliage through which its hunters pursued it, the thick undergrowth concealing not just the tiger but the ever present danger it posed to those that sought to catch it. It was, John thought, a fitting decoration for one of the most dangerous buildings in the city, the more so as the tiger, endlessly pursued, yet remained free. Many laboring in the tangled warren that was Justinian’s court must surely envy it.
